Page 99 of Sin

His eyes lift to mine. “I can’t touch you with it on.”

“You shouldn’t touch me at all.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

He steps closer. So close my body brushes his.

“Because fuck it.”

Then his mouth is on mine. I grab his shirt at the same time he catches my waist, and the kiss turns wild instantly. Like the whole day of staying away only made this worse. Like we tried the right thing and hated it. He lifts me onto the desk, sweeping papers aside with one arm. My laptop slides dangerously close to the edge.

I break the kiss. “My computer.”

He catches it without looking, sets it safely on the chair, then returns to my mouth.

“Show-off,” I breathe.

“Brat.”

The word hits exactly where it shouldn’t. I pull him closer by his tie. He groans. That sound. God. I missed that sound, which is ridiculous because I heard it this morning. His hands slide under my skirt, gripping my thighs, spreading them enough for him to step between them. I gasp against his mouth when he presses close, hard and obvious and done pretending.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

His control snaps. He kisses down my throat, one hand braced on the desk, the other moving beneath my skirt with the same ruthless focus he brings to everything. When his fingers find me, I bite his shoulder through his shirt to keep from crying out.

“You’re soaked,” he says against my neck.

Then he slides one finger inside me, and I forget every word I’ve ever known. Every sound feels enormous. My breath. His belt. The creak of my desk under my weight. The soft, obscene sound of his hand working between my thighs.

“Sin,” I gasp.

His eyes lift to mine.

There he is. Not Mason. Not Mr. Sinclair. Sin.

My Sin.

His mouth crashes into mine again, swallowing my next sound as his fingers move harder, deeper, dragging me right to the edge with infuriating precision.

I come hard enough that my hands shake around his shoulders and my thighs clamp against his hips. He holds me through it, his mouth at my ear.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

That nearly breaks me more than the orgasm. When I come down, he’s breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine. For one second, I think maybe that’s all. Maybe this was the slip. The moment we’ll regret and then stop.

Then I reach between us and undo his belt. Then he’s inside me. Right there on my office desk. Slow at first. A reminder that we are no longer in Amsterdam, or on a jet, or in my apartment where the rest of the world can’t see us. We’re at work. And neither of us stops.

He moves deeper, and my head falls back. He catches the back of my neck with one hand, keeping me close.

“No,” he says, voice low. “Look at me.”

His eyes are dark and guilty and desperate. Every thrust feels like he is trying to bury the day between us. Every breath feels stolen. Every touch feels worse because I know he tried to leave me alone. And I know I wanted him not to.

The desk knocks softly against the wall, and I clamp a hand over my mouth. He pulls it away.